


Ache

by OccasionalAvenger



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, I was watching the Olympics and I was like damn I have Captain America fics to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 17:53:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7724098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OccasionalAvenger/pseuds/OccasionalAvenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I missed you,” he heard himself say.</p><p>Natasha didn’t seem surprised, didn’t even look at him, just shook her head slowly. “Don’t,” she said, her voice firm but not unkind. He could almost believe she thought she was doing him a favor. “Don’t do that.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ache

Tony Stark was on the table and Clint Barton was in his arms. Neither of them was conscious, and Steve decided that was probably for the best.

Tony had clocked out a while ago — turned out not even he could function with a belly full of shots — and Clint had dropped just seconds before into Steve’s arms, his drink sloshing all over both of them. Steve carefully deposited Clint beside Tony on the black granite table and stepped back to survey the disaster that had become the kitchen. Bottles of beer and Tony’s fancy liquors littered the countertops, taking up whatever space wasn’t occupied by takeout Chinese food.

It had been Tony’s idea, naturally, to throw Steve a party when he moved into Avengers Tower, and even if he hadn’t explicitly stated that there would be excessive drinking involved, Steve supposed he ought to have known — it was Tony Stark, after all.

“All worn out, huh?” said Bruce, stepping gingerly into the kitchen and surveying it with an expression akin to a general landing in a warzone. Like Steve, he wasn’t drunk, though for a different reason.

Steve snorted. “I’m pretty sure there’s more alcohol in their bodies than blood…. Is Thor still at it?”

“One could say that,” said Bruce, with a breath of a smile. As if on cue, Thor’s voice boomed from the sitting room — he was bellowing some sort of drinking song with Hill, who was a surprisingly giddy dunk. Steve caught Bruce’s eye, and the two of them exchanged grins.

“Kids these days,” Steve said, shaking his head in mock disapproval. Thor and Hill launched into the chorus of the song, reaching an unbearable volume. Something crashed to the floor and shattered; Clint snorted but didn’t wake up. “I’m gonna get some air,” Steve shouted to Bruce, making a walking gesture with his fingers to communicate his meaning over the din. Bruce nodded, and Steve slipped around him and out of the kitchen. He dodged past Thor and Hill, declined Pepper’s offer for more shrimp, and made his way out onto the balcony.

It was a chilly October night, and a few purple-gray clouds were scudding across the sky, obscuring large patches of stars. Steve leaned against the rail and took a deep breath, inhaling the acrid smell of exhaust, wet asphalt, rancid garbage, and all the other things that made New York, well, New York. Funny how even after all those years in the ice, his city was still itself. He looked down the long balcony and saw a lone figure at the end of it, gazing up at the sky: Natasha.

Silently, Steve joined her, putting perhaps a bit more distance between them than was natural — they hadn’t talked much since she left him in a slummy Moscow apartment all those month ago. Natasha didn’t look at him; she was frowning at a low-flying helicopter a few blocks away.

“They still going strong in there?” she said, her voice raspier than usual.

Steve looked at her curiously but didn’t comment, instead answering, “Tony and Clint passed out. Doesn’t seem to be bothering Thor, though.”

Natasha’s lips twitched in the way that meant she wanted to smile. “He might be the only one of you lightweights who can actually hold his liquor.”

“Well, now,” Steve said, “I think you might be forgetting the old man with super sobriety.” This time Natasha did smile, a gorgeous little thing that made Steve’s chest twinge. A sweet little breeze ruffled their hair, bringing with it the scent of passing rain. Steve stared at his feet, hoping to find what he wanted to say spelled out for him, but there was only damp wooden paneling. What the hell was he doing out here?

“I missed you,” he heard himself say.

Natasha didn’t seem surprised, didn’t even look at him, just shook her head slowly. “Don’t,” she said, her voice firm but not unkind. He could almost believe she thought she was doing him a favor. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m telling the truth.”

Natasha sighed. “I know you are.” 

“You haven’t looked me in the eye since I got back,” Steve said, hearing the hurt in his own voice and wondering where it came from. “We’re supposed to be — ”

“Friends?” Natasha interrupted. Steve blinked, scalded by the acid in her voice. She had been distant, but not — “I thought we talked about that already.”

“Yeah, but we’re in a different business, now.” Her mouth curved into a smirk that disappeared almost instantly. “I want to be able to — talk to you. Is that so bad? I just…” Steve trailed off, staring at the sea of yellow-lit windows until they blurred. The pain in his chest was tight and sharp; the ninety-pound kid with asthma that lived inside him making a reappearance. Memories he’d tried to bury were clawing their way to the surface.

 

Countless nights just like this one; sketchy balconies and street food; newspaper clippings and grainy photographs spread across stiff hotel sheets. Sweet-scented arguments about who is older. (“I was born ten years after you!” “But you lived all those years; I napped through ‘em. Don’t laugh at me — you’re an old soul, Romanov.”) She promises him — and if it’s a lie he damn well wants to believe it —that there is still a person inside his ruin of a best friend. Mind-control is like that, she says. There’s always a piece of you in there. A breath could shatter her voice.

Can you fight it? he wants to know.

If you want to.

Her fingers are bruised as they tighten around his hand.

Her laugh makes his chest ache.

He wants—what does he want?

“Steve?” He blinked, returning to himself. There was Natasha, watching him intently. “I know you’re lonely, but…” She paused, seeming to gather her thoughts. “I can’t be your friend. I’m not the right person for that.”

Steve’s breath seemed to stick in his throat. “You didn’t have much of a problem with when we were…I thought we — ” He could feel his voice becoming less controlled as he spoke, the sense betrayal that had festered within him for months rising to the surface. “You left and I didn’t — you never said why…and now you’re tellin’ me it’s ‘cause we can’t be friends?” A loud burst of laughter sounded from inside, startling them both. Steve swallowed thickly and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “I’m going in,” he muttered. “Nice talking to you.” He turned away, eyes stinging, but a cold hand grabbed his wrist.

“It wasn’t that I didn’t care about you,” Natasha said. Her voice was flat, and she stared fixedly at the place where they touched. “That wasn’t why.”

Steve stood there, frozen. He maybe wasn’t the best with women, but he wasn’t incapable of reading between the lines. “I thought — ”

“I knew you would.” Natasha smiled wryly. “Which is why I left.”

Steve gently extricated his wrist from her grip, letting his arm fall limp at his side. They stood there in viscid silence; Steve’s words congealed in his throat. He reached for Natasha’s face, intending to — to do something, but she caught his hand again and lowered it with a sharp shake of her head. Steve wondered if he imagined the slight squeeze of her fingers just before she let go. He stood there, rooted to the spot as Natasha cast him a last look before swiveling around and heading back inside.

* * *

 

Moscow, nine months ago: Her hair is so startlingly red in contrast to the lifeless gray of their (their?) apartment. She’s about to walk out of his life, but the lamplight is hitting that hair in a way that makes it look like a torch, and by God, he can’t stop staring. He’s supposed to say something here; something to make her stay, but all he manages is “Don’t go.”

A roll of the eyes lets him know how effective _that_ is, and then she’s on her feet and grabbing her bag and— _don’t go, don’t go, don’t go._ “Nat, can we talk about this? C’mon, please—don’t just…” He’s not above begging for her. “Give me ten minutes, I’ll come with you, anywhere, just tell me why—”

She sighs heavily, and Steve tries to shake that nagging feeling that he’s holding her back from something. A ball and chain around her ankle. “I told you. It’s business. Don’t make it more complicated than it has to be.” And he sits there like a dumb cluck as she sweeps out the door like a stiff breeze. He says nothing; he does nothing. He won’t see her for nine months.

Why didn’t he do anything?

* * *

 

Steve couldn’t let that happen again. He watched the city for a long moment, smelling the stale rain, hearing the car horns, feeling the cooling night air. And then he was whirling around and jogging after Natasha. “Nat! Wait up…”

Against all his expectations, she turned, her expression fragile in a way he probably wasn’t supposed to see. Steve crossed the last of the distance between them in a few huge strides; they were so close that Natasha had to tilt her head up to see him properly. He put a hand on her shoulder, achingly gentle — and was hit with a sickening wave of panic. What was he supposed to do now? What was the plan; why had he run after her? What if —

He leaned down and kissed her. He was so surprised at himself for a moment that he forgot to _do_ anything, but Natasha — Natasha, who didn’t pull away, who only let out a kind of resigned sigh — kissed him back.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed this! Let me know in the comments, and feel free to leave any prompts you might want to see in the future.


End file.
